


It's Rotten Work

by aeonwrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, So much angst, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, after the dragonhunt, im sorry, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeonwrites/pseuds/aeonwrites
Summary: After Geralt left him on the mountain, Jaskier just doesn't care any more. He just wants it to end
Comments: 12
Kudos: 159





	It's Rotten Work

**Author's Note:**

> This talks about suicide and self destructive behaviour, so please be careful!

_"If life could give me one blessing it would be to take YOU off my hands!"_

And even now, months later, these words still haunted him. The bar fight he had provoked, had left him bruised and bleeding, and yet, the physical pain had only masked his emotional hurt for a few moments. The moment it had been over, everything came rushing back to him. 

He angrily wiped the blood and tears off his cheek and dusted off his clothes. They were filthy, he hadn't bothered to change. His red jacket was long gone, the once white shirt was caked with blood and dirt and his pants were tied around his waist with a piece of string. They had gotten loose, as he had not been inclined to eat much as of recent. His lute had been lost long ago.

The man pushed open the tavern door. 

"Jaskier!", a voice greeted him cheerily. "You here to play for us?"

Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

"No. Give me all the ale this can buy", he called back, throwing a small pouch filled with coins on the counter. The beekeeper eyed him, a concerned expression crossing his face, but he did as he was told and filled a cup with ale, setting it in front of the bard. 

Jaskier had a thirst. He wanted to just drown it, drown himself. If he couldn’t drown himself in the lake outside of town, then maybe he would die of drunkenness. 

_What a way to go,_ he thought bitterly and emptied his third cup of ale. The barkeeper set another in front of him and the bard eagerly reached for it. 

He would drink until that damn voice left him alone. That damn voice that told him

_He was worthless. Annoying. Useless. A burden._

Especially the grumpy witcher he had grown so attached to hated him. Jaskier was good for nothing but drinking and whoring around, and that was just the sad truth. He had come to terms with it, and now he was content drinking and talking his way into an early grave. The earlier the better.

A woman sat down next to him. She was pretty, no doubt, but Jaskier’s vision was foggy after six cups filled to the brim with ale. She laid a hand on his thigh and whispered in his ear.

“My husband has not returned yet. Do you want to help me pass the time?” The bard grinned and nodded. She took his hand and pulled him from his chair. He stumbled behind her all the way to her room. 

He took no pleasure in the act, he just could not find it in him to care enough. He did what she wanted, and the only time he felt something was when her nails left ten bloody streaks on his back. 

It always went like this. He always did what they wanted, finding no pleasure for himself, yet his mind thankfully was emptied every time. He did not even care what they wanted him to do, he just complied. It was the only thing he was good at, he had been told. It did not matter if it was man or woman, king or queen, count or countess. He gave himself to everyone that wanted him. If it was dangerous, he didn’t care. If he died at the hand of a jealous spouse, then that was his way out of this miserable existence he called a life and finally that would be the end of his story.

Jaskier could barely wait for the song of his life to end. That’s why he didn’t run when the woman’s husband entered the room. He didn't run, when the man pointed a knife at him and lashed out at his chest. He didn't even feel the cut, only stared at the blood running down his body, before he put on his shirt, tucked it in his pants and calmly left the room. 

The bard pushed his way out of the crowded in, knocking a table over in the process but he just couldn't be bothered to apologize. 

"What's your fucking problem, bardling?!", one of the guests yelled once they were outside. The man was backed by four others. Jaskier shrugged.

"What's it to you?", he answered. The man narrowed his eyes.

"Get him, boys", he whispered. 

The four men charged at him. Still there was no fear, no concern for his well-being in his heart. He let them come at him, dodging a punch here, holding a leg that was kicking at him there, and delivering punches until his knuckles turned bloody. The adrenaline rush was barely enough to drown out Geralt's words. Jaskier tried to stretch the fight out, he just wanted to keep that emptiness on his mind a little while longer. His opponents didn't play by his rules, though. The man that had called him out earlier joined in on the fight. And despite the fact that Jaskier wasn't particularly small-- he used to be rather muscular before the whole dragon hunt happened-- the man picked him up like he was nothing and threw him against the opposite wall. Jaskier fell to the ground, hacking up blood as he tried to catch his breath, the crisp autumn air burning his throat and lungs. The men laughed at him before they turned around, disappearing through the door and leaving the bard behind. 

Jaskier laid there for a while before he got to his feet. He couldn't even feel the pain. He couldn't feel the bruises all over his body, couldn't feel the laceration on the back of his head, couldn't feel the painfully stretching cut on his chest, couldn't even feel the infected cut on his thigh that screamed with every step he made. He did not know when he had become so numb to all the physical pain. Just a few weeks ago he had welcomed every cut, every bruise, every scratch to fill his mind with pain-- but now he had sunk so low that the pain wasn't able to fill his mind any more. It could only make it empty, could only make him numb for a few moments.

Jaskier was eager for his mind to empty forever. He wanted that voice to shut up forever. No, if he was being honest, he wanted nothing any more. Nothing mattered. It didn't matter if he was hurt, it didn't matter if he lived or died. No one would care anyway. He had stopped singing his songs. They wouldn't be missed. And even if, others would sing them if they wanted to. But Jaskier? Jaskier himself didn't matter. No one would miss him. No one would mourn him. _It's better that way_ , he caught himself thinking several times. He thought the exact same thing again before he collapsed on the street, his head making hard contact with the cobble stone path.

  
  


Jaskier didn't know how much time had passed. All that mattered was that he was drunk again, and he was at court. Which court? He didn't know and, if he was being honest, he didn't care. But the countess was eyeing him up and down, smiling and winking at him. He forced an empty smile back, knowing where it would get him, and almost immediately a guard approached him. Jaskier couldn't remember what the man had said to him, but it ended with the countess holding his wrist and pulling him along to her chambers. She was eagerly pulling his clothes off, stopping momentarily when she saw all his bruises, but when he just shrugged, she continued undressing him and Jaskier let her. He had done this a million times before. Obey her, please her, let your mind be empty and you might exist another day. He would never call this living.

_I lived when I travelled with Geralt._ The thought suddenly came to his mind, but it was gone in an instant, when the countess buried her teeth deep into his shoulder. He closed his eyes, feeling warm blood trickle down his back. Suddenly the pain was gone and the thought returned again. Jaskier almost whined at the loss, but the countess pushed his clothes into his hands and anxiously looked around the room.

"Quick! You have to leave! My husband's guards are approaching", she ordered him. He nodded, stepping into his clothes that still hadn't been washed, and left through the door. 

"Run!", the countess yelled after him and so he complied. He fell into a jog-- nowhere near as fast as he could run, again, he just couldn't be bothered-- and soon heard the clatter of armour at his heels. 

They were coming closer as he jogged through the streets, and an idea crossed his mind. All this would finally be over. Jaskier slowed down. He could hear the swords being pulled from their sheaths and he stopped completely, just waiting for the sword to come down on his neck, finally putting an end to the miserable story of Jaskier the useless, talentless, whoring bard. 

But instead of feeling the sharp metal slice through his flesh and muscles, he heard steel connecting with steel. He heard the gurgling of men with their throats slit, the screaming of those dying because of their lost limbs. He had missed his chance, he was so useless he couldn't even let himself get killed by guards. Jaskier sank to his knees and for the first time in months he felt tears wetting his cheeks and his breath became laboured with every muffled sob. He got quiet when he felt the tip of a sword at his throat. Maybe he had not yet forfeited his chance. But the sword did not pierce his throat, instead the broad side of the blade forced his head up. And Jaskier saw a face he never wanted to see again. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side. 

"What are you doing?! Were you trying to get yourself killed?!", Geralt demanded angrily. "Look at me, Jaskier!"

The bard sighed and turned to face the witcher. The tiniest bit of life that had kept him upright and alive over the past months left him. He slumped into himself, almost forcing the sword through his throat if Geralt hadn't pulled it away, so that it wouldn't hurt the bard.

 _Too bad,_ Jaskier thought.

"What do you care?", he answered, his voice flat and defeated. There was nothing left in him, no fight, no will or desire to live-- just complete emptiness. 

"Because you are important to me, dammit bard!", Geralt admitted, frustration and concern evident in his voice. Jaskier didn't move.

"When will you get it? I'm not worth it. Just let me die", he said, still void of all emotion. 

Geralt dropped the sword and knelt in front of Jaskier, gripping his bony shoulders tightly. The bard winced as the witcher pressed down on the fresh bite mark.

"Jaskier, you...you are so worth it. I'm sorry for the things I said. Let me make it up to you."

The witcher put a gentle hand on the other man's bloody and dirty cheek.

"Let me take care of you", Geralt said, his voice softer than it had ever been. The bard shook his head and it seemed to Geralt that all the sadness and pain in this world had found its way into Jaskier's heart.

"It's rotten work", Jaskier whispered, tears forming in his blue eyes when he saw the expression of love and worry in the witcher's yellow eyes.

 _Love and worry I don't deserve_ , the bard thought. Geralt shook his head.

"Not to me. Not if it's you", he told him, hugging the bard tightly to his chest. The witcher buried his face in the bard's dirty hair as he let out all the pain he had held in for so long. Jaskier shook violently in Geralt's arms, his broken sobs filling the cold winter air around them.

"It's never rotten work if it's for you."


End file.
